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I shall never see her again if that will content you." Drene laughed: "I never saw my wife again. Did that help me? I never saw her again, but as long as she lived I knew what she was ... My wife. And when she died, still my wife. There was no relief no relief." Graylock, deathly white, framed his haggard face between his hands and stared at nothing: "I know," he said. "I understand now.
And this is one: all physical and mental ills are created only by our own minds " "Christian Science?" sneered Drene. "Call it what you like," said Guilder serenely. "And call this what you like: All who believe worthily will find that particular belief true in every detail after death." "What do you call that?" demanded Drene, amused. "God knows. It seems to be my interpretation of the Goal.
He and Drene consulted over these for a while, semi-conscious of Quair's bantering voice and the girl's easily provoked laughter behind them. And, finally: "All right, Guilder," said Drene briefly. And the firm of celebrated architects prepared to evacuate the studio Quair exhibiting symptoms of incipient skylarking, in which he was said to be at his best.
But laid it aside again as there came a low knocking at the door. Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still beside the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about singing under her breath. They both heard her. Drene nodded weakly.
And if it did, and if truly there were a hell, could a living man add anything to its torments for his enemy's benefit? One day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he was feeling quite well. "Yes" said Drene, "I am well." The janitor spoke of his not eating. And, as Drene said nothing, he mentioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his own quarters in many weeks.
But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself, curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his hand, then gravely tasted it. "This will doubtless give me indigestion," he remarked. "Why, Cecile, do you squander your wages on nourishment for me?" "It cost only five cents." "But why present five cents to me?" "I gave ten to a beggar this morning." "Why?"
Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and laid her cheek on it, crying silently. As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her. The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent over him.
"God knows.... But I think not," said Graylock, under his breath. Drene twisted the automatic, rose and continued to twirl it, considering. Presently he began to pace the floor, no longer noticing the other man. Once his promenade brought him up facing the wall where a calendar hung. He stood for a while looking at it absently.
Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked over also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group, where it belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his empty pipe. After a silence: "It's all right," said Guilder. Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy.
"Carpeaux and his eternal group it's the murderous but inevitable standard of comparison," mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the photograph on the wall. "Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady," insisted Quair flippantly; and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model.
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